


No Hand is Half as Gentle or as Firm

by halfpenny



Series: Rough and Tumble [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, rough-and-tumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-09
Updated: 2009-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfpenny/pseuds/halfpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A real man didn't get off on the idea of a woman whimpering while he screwed into her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Hand is Half as Gentle or as Firm

 

Leonard McCoy grew up in Kentucky, the son of a schoolteacher mother and a bricklayer father. He still remembers the way his father used to look at his mother, soft and reverent, like she was made of spun-glass. “Always remember, Lenny,” his father would say as his mother drifted around the kitchen of his childhood home. “There are no women in this world. Only ladies. And a real man treats a lady like a queen.” And his mother would laugh and sweetly kiss his father’s cheek, and Lenny never forgot that. So the first time he bit his high school sweetheart’s neck hard enough to bruise and liked it, he knew there was something wrong with him. A real man didn’t fantasize about pinning a girl’s wrists above her head with one hand and squeezing. A real man didn’t get off on the thought of a woman whimpering while he screwed into her. A real man bought flowers and held hands and would never dream of being anything but gentle in bed. If he couldn’t make himself want those things, then what did that make him?

It’s been a week since that night in sickbay. Since Nurse Christine Goddamn Chapel let him fuck her with only a pull curtain between them, his entire staff, and their commanding officer. McCoy didn’t sleep at all that night. He paced the length of his quarters with a tumbler of replicated bourbon in one hand, trying to clear his head. Trying to forget the give of her skin under his nails. He downed half the bottle before deciding to give sleep a shot. He’d almost pushed her from his fuzzy thoughts when he pulled his shirt over his head. It smelled like her, like them, like fuck, and lust rolled through him like a gust of too hot air. The rest of the bourbon followed quickly.

That was a week ago and McCoy hasn’t been sleeping much better since then. He dreams. Every damn night, he dreams about her. Bent over his desk, in the captain’s chair, shoved up against the door to his quarters, sobbing his name, and he wakes up coming, hot sharp spurts like a fucking teenager, in his twisted sheets. He doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that he wants to do these things or the hot, creeping knowledge that she’d let him.

He can barely look at her. He briefly considered having her transferred to a supplemental sickbay, but he’s not far gone enough to do something that stupid. She’s the best nurse on staff. Hell, she could probably do his job just as well as him. She’s cool, practiced, and efficient. The rest of the medical team looks up to her. Some, McCoy notes as Rick Kimmel puts a hand on her arm, more than others.

It’s been a slow day. There was a minor fire on deck eight, but nothing serious. Once the worst of the burns are bandaged up and packed off back to their stations, things quiet down. McCoy lingers over the dressing on a junior engineer’s leg. There’s a ripple of laughter behind him and he turns in time to see Kimmel flash a toothy grin at Chapel. It’s been ten years since he’s thrown a punch at another man, but if that kid doesn’t put his teeth away right quick, McCoy will march over there and do it for him. Thankfully, something Chapel says sends the boy on his way and some of the white noise flooding McCoy’s head subsides.

It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting, he knows that. What kind of man wants to beat another man senseless for standing too close to a woman? What kind of man does what McCoy did to that poor girl and instead of apologizing, can’t sleep for wanting to do it all again? McCoy ties off the dressing and signals for a nurse to finish up. When he turns around, Chapel’s staring at him, her head tilted slightly to one side. McCoy feels his lip curl up at the open curiosity in her gaze. And what kind of woman lets a man like him touch her?

*

Christine’s shift ended twenty minutes ago, but she can’t quite bring herself to head back to quarters, not with Doctor McCoy looking like he’s ten seconds away from dropping where he stands. Christine did her mandatory observational hours during training at a sleep clinic and the good doctor might as well be wearing a sign around his neck that reads “ _I haven’t slept in days”_. He looks wrecked. There are purple-dark smudges under his eyes and he’s been worrying his lower lip hard enough to take skin off. He’s doing it right now, his teeth bright and strong against the rawness of his mouth. Her breasts throb for a moment as her nerve endings remember those teeth on her, and she has to close her eyes to gather herself. When she opens them again, Doctor McCoy has moved on and is shouting for a full report on supplies used for the latest rash of patients.

It wouldn’t be fair to say Christine’s been walking on air since that night a week ago. It’s more than that. After she pulled herself together enough to walk back to quarters on watery legs, Christine pulled off her uniform and turned on every light in her room. She leaned into the mirror next to her bed and passed the tips of her fingers over every mark she could find. The reddish pressure marks around her hips, the faint indentures of teeth on her chest, the rough swath of whisker burn across her throat. She touched every spot Doctor McCoy put his hands, traced the patterns he left on her body, and every place she touched was an answer to a question she didn’t know she’d been asking.

Christine dated gentlemen, invariably and consistently. She didn’t go to bed with many of them, a few here and there in college, a couple more afterward. They appreciated her for her mind and respected her opinions, and she adored them for it. But when it came to sex, she never felt comfortable with the softness with which her lovers handled her. Like she was some fragile, precious doll to be appreciated from a shelf rather than played with. It confused her more than anything else. She grew up listening to her girlfriends rhapsodize about boys who wrote them poetry or gazed into their eyes for hours on end, and she expected herself to want what they wanted. So when she had to fight down the impulse to roll her eyes when her boyfriend wanted to hold her ever so gently, she figured she wasn’t cut out for romance and concentrated on her career.

Doctor McCoy wasn’t gentle. Doctor McCoy didn’t touch her like she might break, like she was a doll or a girl. Doctor McCoy touched her like she was a woman, warm flesh and hot blood and need pulsing up from under her skin. He took her like he was dying for her body, like every thrust inside her was to ward off madness. He fucked her so well it hurt, but it hurt her perfectly. Even now just looking at him surrounded by coworkers and officers alike in the middle of sickbay, Christine aches, sweetly, insistently, between her thighs for him. She feels alive and wanton, thinking about him like this right out in public. Ricky’s trying to be smooth with some sort of line, but she really can’t be bothered right now. A frosty smile sends him packing and now Doctor McCoy is staring at her through hostile, bleary eyes. He pivots on one heel and begins cleaning up his station. Christine is halfway across the room before she realizes she’s in motion.

“Doctor McCoy,” she starts, but he’s already walking away from her. She follows. “Sir, you’re working too hard.”

McCoy whirls on her and nearly collides with a passing patient. “Listen missy, don’t tell me how to do my job. I’m perfectly able to work.” His voice is just a touch too loud and one of the other doctors meets Christine’s gaze over McCoy’s shoulder. He shakes his head and Christine does the stupidest thing she can remember. She raises her voice and announces to the entire sickbay that she is escorting Doctor McCoy back to his quarters to prevent a case of nervous exhaustion. She takes the chief medical officer by the elbow and leads him out into the corridor. He’s too shocked, or too tired, to protest and the pair of them walk the hallways in silence until McCoy keys into his quarters.

It’s an austere room. The regulation furniture is empty of knick-knacks and the bed…Christine swallows. She’s in Doctor McCoy’s quarters, staring at the rumpled sheets on his unmade bed. The shock must be wearing off because one look at his face and Christine starts to think this really was the dumbest thing she’s ever done. “Goddamn it, Chapel,” he spits at her. “Goddamn it, what were you thinking? Are you trying to piss me off?” And just like that, something clicks inside Christine’s head, because yes, idiot, that’s exactly what she’s been trying to do. If that’s what it takes to make him zero all his attention in on her, then she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that Leonard McCoy forged his medical license, that he hates Starfleet, anything to make him mad enough to touch her again.

“What if I am?” she says and she might as well have slapped him. He growls, literally growls at her like a beast, and seizes her wrists. Oh yes, Christine thinks as her heart rate picks up considerably.

“Is this some kind of game to you, girl?” He steps forward and Christine moves back, back until her legs bump into his dresser. “What are you trying to do?” He tightens his grip and presses against the thin bones of her wrists. It aches beautifully.

“I want you,” she sighs, soft and strong, and McCoy looks pained. He releases her and stalks across the room. He sits on the edge of the bed, legs apart, and drops his face into his hands. Christine can barely tell he’s muttering to himself, but it’s not until she sits down next to him that she can make out the words.

He keeps his gaze locked on the floor. “I can’t; I’m sorry; I can’t,” he says over and over. Christine has waited her entire life to find someone who makes her feel the way this man can with a single touch, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let his conscience keep her from getting what she needs.

She puts her small hands on either side of his face and turns it gently toward her. “You can,” she whispers as she slips one knee onto either side of his hips. “You can, you can.” She threads her fingers through his hair and he sighs underneath her. She ghosts her mouth over his. “I want you to,” she says and bites down hard on his lower lip.

He jerks under her, hands scrabbling for purchase on her waist, but she keeps her teeth set firmly into his mouth. She sucks at it, hard and sudden, and oh glory be, she can feel his cock swell when he gets it, finally *gets* it and his arms lock around her like steel bans.

He flips her quickly and pins her down with one hand on her collar while the other makes short work of his belt and trousers. Christine tries to sit up, to help, to get back to the swelling redness of his mouth, but he fists the fabric of her uniform and leans down to her. He presses his forehead to hers and holds her eyes. “Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he says, perfectly low and even, and heat plummets through Christine.

With one sharp twist, McCoy rips through the collar of her uniform. She gasps and he moans heavily at her reaction. She closes her eyes and listens to the sounds of her tunic being torn apart. When she manages to look up, McCoy is tugging his shirt over his head. His chest is broad and dusted with coarse, dark hair, and before Christine can get a decent look at him, he’s gripping her knees and settling himself between her thighs. Her shirt is in tatters and with the way he’s eyeing it right now, Christine doesn’t hold out much hope for her bra either. He lowers his mouth to the knot of lace between her breasts. Christine hisses. McCoy looks up through his lashes at her. She’s breathing too loud in the silence of the room and she doesn’t care. He grits his teeth and snaps through her bra. Christine arches her back and shrugs out of the scraps of her clothes.

McCoy shifts once, twice, and then pulls her underwear to one side and shoves into her, deep and thick. Christine bites her lip to keep from yelping, but he shakes his head. “Come on,” he breathes as his hips piston against hers. “Come on, no one but me this time, come on, let me hear you.” Christine opens her mouth and lets go, lets it all go. The words flying out of her mouth are splintered at best, nonsense about so good, so fucking good, oh Doctor, fuck, just like that, yeah. He’s too far gone for words, just grunts and hot pants against her mouth. Sweat beads down the side of his face and Christine cranes up to lick at the damp on his neck.  He slides his hands up her body and takes her breasts in his hands. “Girl, good girl, good—” His rhythm stutters for a moment and Christine whimpers, pulling at his shoulders.

“More,” she sobs and he obliges, pulsing heavily insider her. “Oh god oh god oh fuck—Leonard!” She curls up and grinds out her orgasm against him, wailing as he pumps through her spasms.

He grabs at her hair and yokes her neck back, painful-tight, and pounds into her, groaning, “Here, here, take it, honey.” Christine hiccups out his name again and he comes, too hot inside her, and drops onto her, trembling and perfect. He’s too heavy, but she prays he never moves. His breathing is shot to hell, harsh, snorting huffs with his nose buried in her hair. He’s shivering like a run-out horse and Christine soothes him as best she can, skimming her fingers up and down his back, clenching around his dick when he twitches forward mindlessly.

He sleeps and wakes in her arms, her skin a map of the places he’s been.


End file.
